


Sailing the Frozen Lakes

by Habur



Category: The Iliad - Homer, The Song of Achilles - Madeline Miller
Genre: Alternate Universe, Christmas, M/M, Romance, True Love, War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-24
Updated: 2020-12-24
Packaged: 2021-03-11 05:40:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,296
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28299840
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Habur/pseuds/Habur
Summary: On one night of the year, soldier Achilles awaits his longtime love, the musician Patroclus. War after war has seen no end to the fighting, but there is hope that they can persevere.Meanwhile, a little girl's father can't seem to finish decorating the Christmas tree. The box of ornaments is left open, the memories to be lived out.A Christmas oneshot.
Relationships: Achilles/Patroclus (Song of Achilles)
Comments: 8
Kudos: 33





	Sailing the Frozen Lakes

**The Soldier**

The desert is cold at night, he says to himself. 

He laughs, because the heat of the day drains him to the last. 

Grains of sand on his eyelashes; he watches his fingerprints on the soft floor - and it’s gold all around him. 

In the distance, the soft peaks await. Trails of ants, crawling their way up the top and to the other side. Trails of people, heads and mouths covered, shielding themselves from the power of the sun. 

How vast is the earth around them, that they are but flickers against the gold. No different from insects, iridescent wings in the air. No different from the fireflies of the evening, their fluttering sounds reminding him of an electric shock from a kettle. 

He leans his head back and laughs, feeling the sand on his lips.  
\---

In the trenches of the battlefield, they lie on their bellies - the green of his comrades around him blurs in his eyes. 

He forgets for a moment, the beauty that surrounds them. 

He hears bated breath, sees its white puffs in the air. He smells cigarette smoke and trampled sticks beneath worn boots. Hears the prayers, muttered soft under the wind. The clink of metal beads, a rosary held in callused hands. 

Across the way, the enemy’s lights have gone out. Above them waves the flag of war, and they lie in wait. To hear the clarion call of the trumpet is to rise - each soldier holds still, elbow to elbow, the weapons under their fingertips held closer than a lover. 

When the call comes he thinks it lifts his feet - he is roused into action, invisible strings running the lines of his body, carrying him into the battle, voice hoarse from the screaming as they cry their war hymn. 

Green, green, and green. 

Blurring past him, legs swifter than horses on the racing track. There is no greater terror than meeting the enemy face-to-face, a final unmasking. The bloodlust beats into his very heart, the soul of the warrior released.  
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

**December**

It’s the first snow of the year, and the little girl watches the flurry from behind a frosted window. Her parents have come home with white flecks in their hair, on their coats - and she watches wistfully, lamenting the loss of feeling winter come alive around her. 

It is her favorite month. And they call her strange, because it is the season of death. Lives claimed in blue ice, barren fields where golden crops once flourished. 

But the tinkle of silver bells, and the red leafy flowers they put up near the fireplace - it is a time when life and color is created by the people, even when winter claims it from the earth. 

She’s wrapped up in warm blankets, and her father comes in to check on her. She loves the scratch of his beard as he kisses her forehead, the scent of his pipe lying heavy on his clothes. 

He says her hands are cold and warms them in his; when he gets up to leave, she opens her palms and sees he has left something there. 

He’s unsightly, she thinks, scanning the rough wood and the splinters in the little soldier’s limbs. His marred, painted face stares back at her. Someone has given him green eyes, dotted carelessly above his carved nose. 

She thinks she sees summer in them, and the falling leaves of autumn. 

She loves him at once.  
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

**The Soldier**

No song of victory is better played than in a grand march. 

Over the cobbled streets, he sees ice melting on the pavements. The tavern windows are lit, the voices from within warm and inviting. There are banners over every doorway, and children run free from their homes, eager to watch the procession. 

He thinks it impressive himself, brass instruments and the red and black uniforms of the band. They file down the main street in neat rows, and the officers give their salutes. The noise becomes so loud it starts to ring in his ears, and he can barely hear the shouts of his friends from beside him. They sling their arms around each other and sway to the beat of the drums. They sing loud and clear, off key against the melody of their anthem. 

It is contagious, how their laughter lifts his spirits. His belly is warm with ale, his cheeks frozen in the night air - even the stench of unwashed body does not get to him. 

It is in the crowd, arms around his comrades, when he first sees him. 

The first line of the marching band passes them by, and it is that split second - a flash of shiny metal, of red and black uniform - and a young face, staring at him from the line of musicians. 

He thinks time slows down in that second. All so he can watch as the drummer marches past, that flash of eyes meeting his, and a smile. 

A small smile, perhaps in the easiness of the moment. But he can’t help thinking, it was meant only for him. 

The crowd disperses, his comrades wander off to find more drink. They call his name, and he tags along in a daze. 

That face is embedded in his mind. In his world of nameless towns, nameless camps, and battles he has lost track of - there is a moment of connection so rare he must chase it before it is lost forever.  
\----

He has almost given up when he sees the drummer again. 

His last day in the town, before the soldiers are shipped off to their next deployment. 

Mission after mission. It is his life. 

But here, in the deep recesses of nowhere, there is the promise of rest. 

The clock strikes four and he gets up to leave. His movements are sluggish, but his mind is awake. The men around him are more or less passed out, and he has a mind to make his way to the ship alone. 

“One last drink before you go, soldier?” 

He turns around, because there is something about that voice. A young man sitting quietly by himself, holding up a silver coin almost proudly. There is that smile again, and he feels his heart beat faster. 

“Can’t hurt,” he breathes, even though he wants to say more. 

_Who are you_? 

And what eyes, he thinks, taking a seat opposite the man, gaze roaming over his simple clothes and uncovered hair out of the marching band uniform. 

He doesn’t remember the taste of the ale, but he remembers the scent of it. He remembers the striking of the clock, five and six and seven, until the blasting of the ship’s horns call him to his duty. 

They have been sitting there while the morning is young, and he still hasn’t learned who the young drummer is. 

He thinks he has learned the cadence of his voice, thinks he has locked the lines of his face away as a memory. 

But nameless towns and nameless camps. He wants to know just once. 

“What is your name?” he asks, after seconds of hesitation. 

He shuffles his feet and shoves his hands into his pockets. They are standing under the eaves of the tavern, watching the men gather around the docks. His turn soon. 

The young man smiles at him again, eyes alight in mischief.  
“Will it matter?” he questions.  
“You depart for another town in a matter of minutes. Soon this night will be as distant as the others.” 

“Tell me anyway,” he replies. He can see the gears shifting in the drummer’s head. Thoughts, flying back and forth. 

“I’m Achilles,” he offers, if sharing a part of himself would make the difference. 

The drummer stares back at him, and he thinks for a moment that he will not get his name. 

But it’s when he turns to go, seeing his comrades waving him over, that he feels a hand on his shoulder and lips against his ear. 

“Patroclus.” 

He looks back, feet carrying him and the distance between them growing wider. He boards the ship, craning his neck above the other waving men so their gazes do not break. 

Patroclus. He grins to himself. 

There’s something inside him warmer than the heat of the desert, a feeling more real than the sand against his cheek.  
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

**December**

The little girl’s hand shakes as she folds. They’ve spent the morning making paper snowflakes, paper tinsel. Hanging from the rafters and the windows, a snowy day within the walls of the house. She mentions something about not being able to go skating on the frozen lake outside. She’s spent so many afternoons watching the children from the neighborhood laugh and play - wanting to be a part of it. 

Her father tuts at her in sympathy, and her heart skips for a minute when he settles down next to her on her window seat. He doesn’t have much time, these days - the lines on his face says it all. He takes one of her sheets of paper and folds it up. Shows her how to make the boat, glides it across the air with his deft fingers. 

“There now, little one,” he says. 

“Now you have a boat, to travel across all the lakes of the world.”

She wants him to stay with her, but he has to leave before she can ask. Her mother’s worried voice calls him from the other room, and she feels his sigh as he gets up to go. She can’t mask her disappointment. 

But her hands root around on the window seat, until they find the wooden legs of her soldier. 

She won’t be alone, she thinks, setting him inside the white boat until he is perched there at the stern. 

If she is to travel across the lakes of the world, then her little soldier will go with her, and she takes comfort in it.  
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

**The Soldier**

The wind is blowing through his hair, he keeps a hand on his hat to prevent it from flying off. 

He may sail the world, sitting on the crow’s nest of the ship on the lookout for icebergs. But they trail further and further along the map, and he has it crossed out in his heart. 

Year after year, and there is one town he holds dear among them all. 

A port, its image nestled in his memory. 

He knows there is dirt on his face, his uniform covered in grime. But his medals shine on his chest, one missing with every year that passes. 

“Keep it safe for me until we meet again,” he has said, every time they meet. 

His blood races to imagine that face awaiting him at the docks, one among the sea of others. 

They throw down the anchor, and he rushes to starboard, leaning over the rails to catch a glimpse of the crowd. 

It is an army town. There are waving handkerchiefs, exultant cries greeting the arriving men. It is once a year when the ship docks in the harbor, and longtime friends reunite again. 

Once a year when the face in his memory becomes real and alive, grinning up at him among the anticipating crowd. 

He scans the faces. He is one of the first off the ship, not even waiting for the ramp to come down before he has leaped off, pushing through bodies until he is intercepted by a pair of waiting arms. 

Patroclus laughs in his ear, the sound warm and long-missed. 

“Hello again, soldier,” the other man whispers. 

He leans back to look him up and down, to drink in his hair and his eyes and the crease in his cheek from a smile. 

“Patroclus,” he whispers back. 

“See, I remembered, didn’t I?” 

It is a joke between them, because how could he not? Every other day of the year, they are strangers on either side of miles of sea and soil. 

But today, and tonight. 

He has Patroclus’ hand in his, the bones of his fingers and calluses on the skin a familiar sensation. It’s that same tavern, always the same. 

Up the stairs they race, through the door of their room, bursting through until it swings on its hinges. All the while, he feels his heart will surely burst out of his chest. 

“You don’t waste any time, do you?” Patroclus manages between kisses, breath coming fast as their lips meet again, and again. 

“Should I kiss you slower?” he questions wryly, and savors Patroclus’ laugh. 

He feels those hands on his face, over his neck; he takes them in his and presses his mouth against the knuckles. 

There are laugh lines on Patroclus’ face, crows’ feet at the eyes. Otherwise, the years have been kind to him. He is still the same, the lasting image of that night long ago. 

Brutal days in the desert, the deaths of his friends clinging to the air around him. Yet one night of music, a victory song he scarcely knew the lyrics to. And someone who could soothe his soul, found among the masses of strangers.  
\---

“Here,” Patroclus says, tracing a star over his chest. 

The clock has struck twelve, and they lie tangled in the sheets, his heartbeat slowed to a steady rhythm. 

“I did promise to keep them safe for you.” 

He looks at the gleaming medals Patroclus has in his chest of drawers, a keepsake for their times apart. 

Hundreds of days, until he earns another and gives it again. 

“Sooner or later I will run out of them,” he replies, pressing his mouth to Patroclus’ hair.  
“Will you still want me then?” 

“Sooner or later the fight will be over, and when we meet again there will be no goodbye.” 

It makes him look at Patroclus, a sting in his chest at such hopeful words. 

He is a soldier, made to protect, to serve. But just a few words have managed to capture where exactly his heart belongs. 

There is a day beyond the horizon, when the ship will dock for the last time in the harbor. It is a day they wait for, when the war no longer calls him, when this town is no longer an army town but a home along the coastline, where he and Patroclus will stay till the end.  
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

**December**

There are pine needles scattered along the floor, and her mother is angry that no one has cleaned it up. Everyone is angry these days. They think she doesn’t know why. 

She wishes she didn’t keep them up at night. Tossing and turning in her bed, talking in her sleep. She dreams of frozen lakes, spreading out into the great wide sea. 

All the while her little soldier is clutched at her side, and the paper boat that they travel the world with. 

When the tree is up, she manages to watch half-lidded from her bed by the window. She has gotten so weak that she can’t sit up anymore, but against her mother’s wishes, her father has pushed her bed out into the living room. So she can see the lights in the tree at night, and go to sleep thinking stars have reached her dreams. 

The ornament box is left open, the tree half-done where her father has left it. He doesn’t have the will anymore. 

She knows he gets up early every morning, placing one shiny bauble after another, if only for her to wake up to a magic land within the walls of their home. 

They had once decorated the tree together, but these days she can barely hold a glass ball in her hand without fearing it will shatter at her feet. Instead, she waits for the mornings when the tree is complete, the angels and pine cones and ribbons her father added while she was sleeping. 

Her favorites are the musicians, fragile and lovely in their red and black coats, clutching brass trumpets and bugles and horns. Her own talents with music are little - but what a marvel it must be, to watch a parade passing through, the lively sounds of the band raising spirits.  
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

**The Soldier**

“Until we meet again.” 

He thinks the sentence rings in his ear for all time, Patroclus’ voice and the sound of his breathing clear every time he closes his eyes. 

He has a hand against his heart, then raised in a rigid salute, a parting gesture as the ship takes off from the harbor. 

The handkerchiefs are waving again, crowds of people gathered to see the men off. 

And his beloved, staring off into the distance, growing further and further between them until he is a speck against the grey sky. 

One last trip around the world, he thinks. If he could make a vow for it to be true, he would. 

The ship rocks against the current, and he thinks of how cold the water is. Even on sunny days when there are dolphins leaping from the waves, he counts the hours and the minutes. 

There are hundreds of days between them. 

But one night of the year, and the waiting can come to a rest. 

He spends his travels longing for a distant town where he has buried his heart. No matter where he finds himself, in the heat of the battlefield or in muddy trenches crawling along with the wounded; there is a cold night where he is warmed by music, brassy melodies and the beat of the drums.  
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

**December**

All is still in the house. There are no sounds but quiet breathing, the little girl having drifted off in one last restful sleep. Her father comes in to cover her in more blankets, to stoke the fire to keep her warm. 

Her favorite month, he thinks, gone in the flash of a second. In a few days, they will take down the lights. In a few days, the tree will be barren when the celebration has come to an end. 

There were marching bands outside the night before, and he had woken her just long enough to catch the peak of their music as they passed through the streets. What a smile there had been on her face. 

She is strange to like the cold, he thinks. She is strange to chase dreams of frozen lakes, the seas of the world explored on her paper boat. 

He reaches between her arms to retrieve the boat, now crumpled from weeks spent clutched to her chest. He smoothes it out, and startles when something lands on the blankets with a small thump. 

How odd, he thinks. It had escaped his mind that he had given her the ornament at all. He picks up the little wooden soldier, examining its worn out legs and splintered arms. Had she really slept with it cuddled close to her, uncaring of how it scratched against her cheek?

He can't remember a time when he hasn’t had the soldier. It was a constant in their household, passed down from generation to generation. If his little girl survives the winter, perhaps her own children will know its protection as well. 

But it doesn’t belong here, he thinks. It is the eve of a night when color and warmth is created by the people. He cradles the soldier in his hands, and carries it over to the tree that he had finished just the day before. 

There is a bare spot, right among the musicians, hanging proudly on golden hooks with their red and black uniforms. He scans the branches until he finds a lonesome one, a drummer, right up underneath the star. 

There, he thinks, placing the soldier next to him. They can keep each other company, as they have year after year, throughout his own boyhood and after his daughter had been born.

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know what possessed me to write this cheesy weirdness. Anyhow, Merry Christmas, everyone!


End file.
